Dear Diary, I'm In Love

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Dear Diary, I'm In Love Page 30

by John A. Broussard


  Jackson could hardly wait to dispatch the secretary in search of the records, pour coffee for the two of them and settle into one of the cloth-covered chairs of the outer office before saying, sotto voce, “Asshole.”

  Van Damm grinned. “My Dad used to say sweet talk and snake oil was the best way to screw a cat. You know, I never hesitate to make use of the fact I’m a woman.”

  “So I see. But I guess I can’t fault you too much for it. I slip into jive talk when I’m working with informants in the ghetto. It pays to be black there, and to act black—but he’s still an asshole.”

  The records arrived before they finished their coffee. The secretary hovered nearby waiting for the return of the documents while Jackson took notes. The ward was number six, the nurse on duty at the time of the death was Maria Colson, the physician in attendance who had signed the death certificate was Dr. Indira Rashkinar.

  Fortunately, from the officers’ viewpoint, both the nurse and doctor were still employed at the hospital, and Dr. Rashkinar was in fact on duty at the moment. After also taking a few notes and thanking the secretary for the records—Van Damm made it a point to ask her to pass the thank-yous along to the Managing Director—the officers took off to find their first interviewee.

  Dr. Rashkinar—a tall East Indian woman approaching middle age but wearing well—was obviously busy. Even so, she immediately expressed a courtesy that had been noticeably lacking initially in the encounter with the hospital administrator’s office. “You’ll have to excuse me my hazy memory, but we’re crowded, understaffed—and the kind of casualty you described is hardly rare here. Antonio Belli? A gunshot wound to the chest. Is there anything else you can tell me about him?”

  Jackson checked his notes after explaining exactly why they were interested in the former patient. “Arrived in ER at 6:27 on a Friday morning. Dr. Emmet Waterville on duty. Damaged aorta, heavy loss of blood. Five transfusions. Triaged?” He looked at the Doctor.

  “That means they didn’t expect him to make it. Now, I do remember something about him. That was an impossible morning out of a lot of just barely possible ones. There was a bus accident, and we were getting streams of injured. Mostly walking wounded, fortunately. You say Maria Colson was on duty that day? Yes, now I definitely remember what happened. She paged me, since she’d checked for vital signs after the monitor indicated he was dead. She was right, of course. I didn’t have to do a thorough examination, since none was necessary. Once I was sure he was dead, I checked his chart, noted the death and went right back to ER. They needed me more than the dead man did.

  “Incidentally,” the Doctor added with considerable emphasis, “Maria is one of our best nurses. No! She's our best nurse. I can assure you there are no mix-ups when she’s on duty.”

  After profuse thanks for the information and apologies for interrupting a quite evidently busy schedule, Jackson and Van Damm adjourned to the crowded hospital cafeteria for lunch. They decided to do so after discovering that Maria Colson wouldn’t be coming on until the two pm shift. The coffee was surprisingly good, though the food merely lived up to hospital standards. Jackson worked his way through a passable hamburger while Van Damm picked at a salad.

  “Still think we’re on to a possible explanation?” he asked.

  “From what I’ve seen of this place, I’m ready to believe anything could happen here. We’ve all heard of cases where corpses suddenly sit up in the embalming room?”

  “Sure, but never one that had a hole through his chest.”

  Van Damm agreed.

  Jackson went on. “And, besides, that doctor for sure knows her business. If she says he was dead, I’m ready to bet my pension that he was. And, from what she said, this Maria Colson isn’t the kind of nurse who makes mistakes.”

  “Even so, I’m not giving up until we’ve spoken to her. I won’t give up then, either, without talking to the sergeant who took the prints. Maybe we should run down the attendants who removed the body.”

  “You are thorough.”

  “I’m a crossword puzzle fan. I just hate to leave any blank spaces.”

  Jackson looked gloomy as he finished off the last crumb of his lunch. “This puzzle seems to be all blanks.”

  Maria Colson was a sharp contrast to Dr. Rashkinar, at least in general appearance. Somewhere in her mid-thirties, small, dark, extremely pretty—she was not only cordial but also seemed almost glad to see the two officers, in spite of the dark circles under her eyes indicating long-term fatigue. Turning to one of the other nurses, she told her she would be in the lounge, then invited the officers to follow her as she led the way.

  Even before they sat down, Colson said, “It’s about Antonio, isn’t it?” It was more a statement than a question. “I haven’t slept for the last two nights, and I decided I couldn’t take it any more. I saw what he did to that poor man, and it’s all my fault.”

  Jackson’s voice was soothing as he said, “Please tell us about it. From the beginning.”

  Colson sighed, crossed her hands in front of her on the table where the three were sitting and, almost like a schoolgirl reciting her lesson, she began, “It was one of those really awful days here at the hospital. There had been a bad bus accident, and all the medical personnel who could be spared were working in ER. I was alone in the ward when an attendant brought my brother in on a gurney, and there was a police sergeant along. I was horrified, especially when the sergeant said that Antonio had killed someone. All I could think of was the impact on my mother. Antonio had always been a problem, always in trouble, and I really couldn’t feel terribly sorry for him—even though he is my brother—but it was what having a killer in the family would mean to my folks, my mother especially.

  “I examined Antonio, along with the data sent up by ER. They had written him off, and that’s what I told the sergeant who said he still had to at least take his fingerprints—which he did. It was about then I decided I had to do something. I wasn’t sure what, but I had to get rid of the sergeant first. He was happy to leave, since it was obvious Antonio wasn’t going anywhere. After he left, I checked Antonio again. You know, after you’ve been around sick and injured people all these years, you develop some kind of sixth sense—you can tell whether a patient is going to die or not.

  “Yes, I know what you’re thinking, but it does work—maybe not always, but most of the time. So I saw that Antonio would survive. I was sure of it. And that made it even worse. I could see the police and the courts and the prison and what all that would mean to my mother. Well, the something I had to do was obvious. I had to get my brother out of there but, in the meantime, there was a whole ward to attend to. That’s when it almost seemed as though God was providing me with the means to protect my family. I found that one of the patients on the ward had died, probably only moments before I discovered that he had. He was a homeless man who’d been in a knife fight.

  “So then it was simply a matter of changing the medical record that’s attached to the front of the bed. The man didn’t look much like Antonio, but I was sure no one would identify either of them. So, with all the confusion of that day and subsequent ones, and switching the records and making some careful revisions in them to have them more or less match the actual injuries, I was sure the changes would go unnoticed. Dr. Rashkinar signed the death certificate almost immediately after she arrived in answer to my page. She didn’t have time for anything more than to ascertain that the patient was indeed dead.

  “The big problem was with my family. They had to accept the substitute as their son for burial purposes. They had to make the arrangements, to have a closed casket, to go to the funeral and to act as though this stranger was their son. Believe me, that wasn’t easy for them or for me. And Antonio was in and out of sedation for days, delirious part of the time. I was terrified of what he might say before I could explain to him his new identity. When he was discharged, I made him swear to never become involved in crime again. And I think he really did manage to, but he was away most of th
e time, so I can’t be sure.

  “Well, I know the house that was burglarized the other night, since Antonio had worked there as a gardener. I called Antonio when I heard about it on the late news. He tried to hide it, but finally admitted to what he had done. He begged me not to tell the police. I wouldn’t promise. Believe me, I wrestled with my conscience. I have two young children at home, and my husband will be destroyed when he finds out I’ve been protecting a criminal all these years. But I just have to confess. It really is my fault that that man was shot. And maybe there have been others I don’t even know about.”

  Van Damm was almost as surprised by Jackson’s response to the long description as she was at the narrative, itself. After writing down the address of the apartment where Antonio was now living under the name of Stefan Kovic, he said to Colson, “Don’t talk to anyone else but us about this—not even your husband or your folks.”

  Since it was his case, Van Damm saved her comments until they were alone together back in the car, headed toward Antonio’s apartment and after he’d made his call for backup. Before she said anything, she took a hand off the wheel and rearranged the rearview mirror so that she could see his face.

  “O.K. Now what was that all about, back there? Do you mean you aren’t going to turn her in?”

  “That’s what I mean.”

  “And it sounds as though you’re actually going to try to cover for her.”

  Jackson’s face was expressionless as he said, “Yes.”

  “Look! It isn’t only the hospital that would be concerned about record switching. She could be charged with obstruction of justice and as an accomplice after the fact.”

  “I know. But sometimes you have to do what you know is right.”

  “Right?”

  “Yes. She didn’t act for personal gain. She was trying to protect her family. And if a person should suffer for doing wrong, she’s suffered enough already. It’s going to be bad enough for her mother and father to have a son in prison without having a daughter involved too—to say nothing about what that would do to her own kids and husband. Besides, you heard what the doctor said about her. We need nurses like Maria Colson out on the ward floors—not behind bars.”

  Jackson caught a glimpse of thin lips and a grim expression in the mirror, as she asked, “Do you realize I could turn you in for dereliction of duty?”

  “Yes. You have to do what you think is right, just as much as I do.”

  Van Damm glanced up at the mirror, then turned it back to its normal position. The rest of the trip continued in silence. Arriving at the apartment, they got out and began to put on their kevlar vests just as their backup pulled up.

  After checking her gun and slipping it back into its holster, Van Damm broke the silence. “Would you be interested in going out to dinner, tonight?”

  Jackson, who had also been inspecting his own automatic, almost dropped it before replying “Why, yeah.” Recovering from his surprise, he quickly added, “You bet.”

  “OK. I’ll pick you up at seven.” She paused before asking, “Remember how I said I took advantage of the fact that I’m a woman?”

  Jackson nodded.

  “I also take advantage of the fact that I’m a liberated woman.”

  ____________________

  A MORE PERFECT UNION

  Kate McKenzie knew her tears were as much for herself as for him. The news really didn't much surprise her. When Newell had told her he was going off to fight for the secessionists, she hadn't tried to stop him. She knew any such attempt was bound to be futile, even though Kentucky was a neutral state and neither side was forcing men to the colors. But Newell insisted that since Tennessee had gone over to the Confederacy, he was duty bound to help his relatives there. Never mind the farm. Never mind little Aaron, just two and needing a father. Never mind anything but the sound of drums and bugles, the call to glory, the chance to fire his gun at a living target other than a fox or squirrel.

  Roy—poor pale Roy—heading back to his parents in Louisville with what was left of his arm flopping in a pinned-up sleeve, had filled her in all too graphically on his cousin Newell's demise at Manassas. The cannon ball that had maimed Roy had first decapitated Newell. Before he left on that hot, late-summer afternoon to resume his trek home, Roy's last words were, “But we won. Made those Yankees skeedaddle all the way back to Washington.” Kate had shaken her head in disgust.

  The night was a long one. Sleep had been replaced by thoughts of what was now facing her. Could she run the farm alone? The tobacco crop would be the first problem. Could she fire up and watch over the smoke shed, take care of Aaron, milk the cow, feed and tend the chickens, slop the pigs, hitch up Blaze to the cultivator and keep the weeds from taking over the corn field—besides doing all the house chores? And then harvest time would be upon her. Hay to get in, corn to cut and shuck—the tasks seemed insurmountable. And yet she had been able to cope during the past two months while Newell was off aiming to be a hero and ending up a headless corpse in a nameless field.

  Fortunately, Newell's father had left behind a thriving farm when he died. He had also left a little nest egg that might tide her over if she could find help. But most of the young farmers and field hands had been fool enough to answer the call; some headed north, others south. Old Masterson, a half-mile down the rutted dirt road could come by and help some, but he had his own acres to work. There was no one else for miles around she could think of, other than women like her left with daughters and adolescent boys or elderly parents as their only help.

  And, as though there weren't enough trouble, the early morning light found her wondering what the strange sounds were that were coming from the barn. Rory had been barking in the night, but she had assumed it was the lone raccoon who occasionally strayed too close to the henhouse and plagued the dog. After making sure that Aaron was still asleep, and armed with a pitchfork, she made her way along the aisle separating the spring hay from the stalls, Rory trotting along in her wake.

  The source of the sounds was obviously no danger to her—at least not at the moment. A man was lying unconscious on the barn floor, moaning softly, his head caked with blood, his shirt a rusty red where it had become saturated. Rory apparently shared her view of the figure's harmlessness as he merely sniffed at the stranger and then sat down to watch what was going to happen next.

  It never occurred to her to do otherwise than what she did. She fetched a basin of water from the pump, washed the wound—a long crease along the left side of his head which exposed the bone—tore an old sheet into strips for bandages, removed the stiffened shirt and saw that no additional damage had been done to his muscular torso and arms.

  She caught the eyes looking at her and saw the lips silently saying “water.” Nodding, she hurried off to the well again and quickly returned with a battered and dripping tin cup. She held it out to her patient, slipped a hand behind his head and helped him drain it of its contents. The effort seemed to have robbed him of the last of his energy. Unsure whether he had fallen asleep or simply lapsed back into unconsciousness, she covered him with a blanket, decided she had done all she could do for him, and went off to her chores with Rory trailing behind.

  The stranger drove her own troubles temporarily from her mind as she pressed her head against the warm flank of the cow and deftly stripped her of her milk. A doctor was out of the question. It was twenty-two miles to the nearest one in Rosebend.

  It wasn't difficult to decide who the stranger was. There had been rumors of a clash between the Union and Confederate troops near Hyatt. Wounded and dazed, he must have wandered off. That was very likely the answer, she thought, and also the solution to the problem. The first soldiers coming by would take him off her hands, either his own—whichever side he was on—or the others. In one case to fight again, in the other to become a prisoner. All things considered, she felt the latter event to be the happier one for him.

  Thinking about the still form stretched out on a bed of hay, she shook her head
at the folly that had sent her husband and this young man off to kill and be killed. The old men hanging about the village store argued back and forth over the war. The consensus, if there was one, was that the southern states could secede if they wanted to and take their damn slaves along with them, that Kentucky should stay in the Union, that if no one bothered them, they wouldn't go bothering anyone either. That made sense to Kate, but as she went back through the barn with the pail of milk and looked down at the sleeping form, she knew there would be a lot of bothering.

  It was noon before she could take time out to check again on the wounded man, and then she had to take the restless Aaron along. The hot summer day had made the stranger push aside the blanket she'd thrown over him. As she re-entered the barn, she could see he was struggling, unsuccessfully, to sit up. They looked at each other. Aaron clutched at his mother's skirt, while Rory, tail wagging, went over to the man's side. An extended hand increased the wagging rate.

  The stranger was the first to speak. “Thank you,” he said, raising his hand to his bandaged head. Kate became aware of blue eyes, a stubble of blonde beard and a square chin with a surprisingly deep cleft.

  She shrugged. “It was the least I could do. You're badly hurt, but there's no doctor within two dozen miles of here.”

  “That's all right.” He gave a weak smile. “I have a hard head. The ball must have just creased it a bit.” He seemed to be trying to straighten out his thoughts. Eyeing the child who was peering out at him from his refuge, he asked, “Isn't there anyone else here?”

  “My man went soldiering,” Kate said, not trying to hide the bitterness of her tone. “I found out just yesterday he was killed at Manassas.” She noticed a strange and indefinable expression cross the man's face.

 

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